Unforgettable
by FaziO
Summary: Unforgettable, that's what you are. Unforgettable, though near or far. Like a song of love that clings to me, how the thought of you does things to me. Never before, has someone been more, Unforgettable in every way. And forever more, that's how you'll stay…
1. Chapter 1

**Unforgettable**

 **A/N: I've been told "TMI" so this time I'm going minimalist. Enjoy ;-)**

 **Disclaimer: All characters are the purview of ABC's Grey's Anatomy and stem from the artistic mind of Shonda Rhimes and her merry band of GA Writers.**

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Unforgettable, that's what you are. Unforgettable, though near or far. Like a song of love that clings to me, how the thought of you does things to me. Never before, has someone been more, Unforgettable in every way. And forever more, that's how you'll stay…

Chapter 1

She awoke to a kaleidoscope of color, disorientated. The night was dark and full of terrors, a murky backdrop to the vivid, livid inferno from which terrified screams emanated. The guttural cry that dragged her out of her comatose state awakened her to a nightmarish version of this mind-conjured Hades. Not that Hell was anything other than terrifying, except perhaps in the PG Disney Animated interpretation, so she forgave herself this redundancy of thought. This equivalent Greek God of the Underworld (Hades: the mythological God of the dead not Hades: the interim destination after death as per the Greek rendition) was a frightening Spectre, leaving her shaken not stirred. Her traumatizing view encompassed a short statured figure with flames shooting from the head, eyes pinpricks of devilish red and mouth agape emitting one continuous, uninterrupted, bat-like shriek. The horrendous sound was an accompaniment to the death dance of the body, whipped into a frenzy trying to escape the covering, spiraling ball of flames. Human Torch, she thought. Was this real or a figment of her bizarre imagination? A dramatic lucid dream perhaps? She had to help…it was what she did. Her body, though, refused to co-operate. Even the prospect of escaping this tour through the Netherworld could not incentivize her neurons to fire up the synapses leading to movement. She did make a valiant attempt, forcing life into her protesting limbs and extremities. The only effect this had was causing her brain to shut-down communication with the rest of her body and thereby derailing her one-woman salvage crusade. If only Astral Projection was a possibility and something she believed in! The likelihood of this type of out-of-body experience was not only improbable but would still not allow her to render assistance. Unbidden, her eyelids pantomimed those of a corpse from the Old West Era, that of being weighed down with lead. She slipped back into unconsciousness.

It could not have been more than a few minutes, or ten, before she was once again jarred awake. People were in the midst of frantically trying to resuscitate what was left of the still smoking Human Fireball, seemingly to no avail. She lifted her hand attempting to summon attention and rescue. The revelation of her presence in their midst, conversely, went unnoticed. She was obscured by the shrubbery belonging to the tiny oasis adjacent to the south-side entrance of Grey Sloan Memorial Hospital. The overgrown vegetation had, to a small degree, cushioned her landing when the propulsion of the explosion lifted and flung her body like an unseen hand pitching a fast ball. Her mind felt like cotton candy as she tried to hold onto thoughts and the anxious feeling that she was being forgotten dissolved like that very same confection submerged in a puddle of water. Mental acuity fled as she was dragged once more into the arms of Morpheus.

She resurfaced mere minutes later. A feeling of apprehension flooded her veins in tandem with the speeding red blood corpuscles pumping through her heart. All was not right in her world. It was not in her nature to ask for help, she was a woman of strength who did not require a man to save her. Pride, however, took a backseat in this situation and while helplessness rode shotgun, necessity took the wheel. She tried calling out for help but her feeble cries went unchecked. Mustering up energy, aided by her brain sending a burst of adrenaline to her muscles, she managed to lift herself from the ground and even take a few steps. Realizing that her field of vision was clouded by blood from a head wound trickling into her eyes, she managed to brush away that debris, clearing her view but unknowingly smudging and simply redistributing the soot and dust on her face. Her energy depleted by that slight movement she just stood there for a moment in zombie-like imitation, hoping all the while that someone would notice her stillness and sweep her off her feet. No in the romantic sense, mind you, but in the not having to move sense.

Minutes passed and she wondered at not only the lack of 'knights in shining armor' but also the nonexistence of freaking doctors outside the Emergency Room of a Hospital where an explosive disaster had just occurred. Unable to sustain either vertical immobility or even upright motion, she breathed a sigh of relief on spotting an unattended vehicle mere steps to her left. Collapsing onto the gurney after a self-forced surge of agility interspersed with embarrassing crawling movements over the Ambulance's tailgate, she attempted to normalize her erratic breaths. Even indisposed as she was and with detail of her situation blurred by a hazy fog, her methodical, analytical training in instantaneous trauma resolution kicked in. She concluded that her sojourn in the back of the Ambulance was doubly advantageous – it was somewhere to rest her injured self, paired with the expectation of discovery and thus medical remedy of the injuries she'd sustained. These thoughts were both fleeting and fleeing and once more she succumbed to oblivion.

The segue to wakefulness was quite seamless this time, although the accompaniment of motion was new. Immediately, as the thought registered, movement ceased. Before her mind could comprehend the actions and sequence of events leading up to this moment, she was confronted by searing light that simultaneously caused her to wince at the brightness and sigh when the very same light was blocked by a shadowy form. The shadow was welcome as it protected her from the glaring illumination, but it also concealed the coinciding expressions of shock followed by resignation that were etched onto the visage of the first responder who had wrenched open the double doors at the back of the vehicle. The light at his back camouflaged his countenance from her and while her own thoughts were out-of-focus and just out of reach, she knew that he was a stranger to her.

"What are you doing in here? This is no place to catch a nap! Or did you party too hard and now you're hung-over, huh lady?" His words were harsh, his voice hard and his tone unrecognizable.

"I…I…" she stammered, unable to articulate or recover her bearings. Her mind was fuzzy. Where was she? And how had she ended up here?

"If it's not a passed out party girl, it's a homeless drunk using this as a rest-stop! Come on get out of there! We have real emergencies here! And wait until you're outside to puke, will you? I just hope you haven't already! I can tell you I won't be the one to clean up your mess!" the whiny Paramedic rambled.

Confused as she was, one thing she was sure of, his bed-side manner was atrocious. What was the purpose of becoming a medical professional if not to help people, she wondered. Forcing her limbs to obey her, she lifted herself up and pushed past him with all the pride and dignity she could muster. She would not allow him to diminish her power.

Oblivious as he was to her as an individual, he stepped out of the path she would have to take. Being a tight squeeze though she had to brush past him and inadvertently she bumped against his shoulder. His reaction to this was completely unexpected – he jumped as if confronted by a viper about to attack him. Unaware of what to make of his actions she stood there a moment in silent contemplation, the fog in her mind slowly dissipating but leaving remnants – large holes of missing information. It obviously was not respect, her inner voice responded facetiously. Fear, she introspected? No, that scenario seemed equally unlikely. Maybe fear of repercussions as 'someone' had to be held accountable for not checking the Ambulance earlier. Obviously she would have been revealed when the Paramedics went to shut the doors – that had been the premise of her getting discovered after all. Perhaps it was a form of prejudice against her or rather what she represented. Gazing down at herself the answer came to her. Disgust, which he now made no attempt to conceal, was the presiding emotion she was able to discern on his face – he was revolted by her appearance.

Her clothing, while not exactly in tatters, showed extreme wear and tear, covered as they were in grime from the explosion and fire. Based on her supposition of the picture that she presented, she assumed that the rest of her correlated to that vision and probably gave her the look of a vagabond. A dirty, dusty, disgusting embarrassment, well his assessment of her. The reality, of course, was far different and she had neither the drive nor the wherewithal to correct his distorted opinions or even to morph this into a teaching moment. To be totally frank she was mightily pissed off with men in general, and the privileged, holier than thou attitude of _this_ man, one who was incapable of compassion, was more than enough incentive to move her in the opposite direction to him. The presence of another more important man, while not clearly delineated, lingered in the mysterious recesses of her mind. The thread of memory leading to him was oh so close, but just out of reach. She would try to unravel that strand as soon as she got away from this unpleasant fellow and disagreeable situation. In an aside, she was in no state, mentally, for a confrontation about such weighty topics as prejudice, sexism and basic human nature. Also, her pride was a double-edged sword – she would not beg for help from someone so obviously looking down on her. He confirmed her perception with his continued mumbling chastisements which emerged in the form of self-talk. He could not even deign to converse directly with her. Such rude and uncouth behavior and extremely unprofessional too! Portions of his rant were audible to her as she made her way away from him, causing her to add 'racist misogynist' to his credentials too.

"…it's the fault of that bloody woman, Nic….think she is? _My_ supervisor? I should be _her_ super…damn affirmative action! I should …how she leaves…letting in druggies and drunks…"

As a sidebar, she called BS on his arrogant rationalizations of the closed minded certainty of his bigoted convictions.

Her physical demeanor was at odds with her mental stability. While her stride was a confident, head held high strut, her roving eyes mirrored the fear and anxiousness she felt at the sieve-likeness of her brain in respect of memory retention. Her head was metaphorically under water, though her breathing was fine…she felt like she was going out of her mind? Why did it seem that sentence should be accompanied by musical notes? Confusion reigned supreme but tendrils of remembrance were reigniting via the combination of chemicals and electricity generated by her emotions, which at the present moment was predominantly fear. Fear of the unknown. She gazed down at herself looking beyond the darkened remnants of the explosion and the residue from embers, to the pale skin beneath. Her hands, though, were what snagged her attention, the left one specifically. It sparked a memory so clear that it appeared to be playing out in her minds eye. It took a split second to reach the conclusion to act on her returning recollections and yet even quicker than that for it all to dissolve, for it to deteriorate to hell in a handbasket.

She'd come upon them so suddenly. While introspecting and prodding her ability to remember as well as nudging the memories themselves, she'd continued walking. Ostensibly the idea behind the action, spurred by emotion, was to get as far away from Paramedic Prejudice as it was possible to get, with no thought as to consequences. Yes, the neighbourhood looked rough, but that wouldn't have deterred her. She was a freakin bad-ass surgeon after all, she recalled. A strong woman who not only could and did take control of situations, but also one who overrode her own anxieties when a person or situation required her assistance. She was super-confident in her abilities. Which is why she stepped in when the young boy looked to be in mortal danger. Although, hindsight was 20:20. Stepping in to the situation could have been dealt with way more finesse then simply shouting out to the Gang Bangers to leave the young boy alone. For her troubles she watched as the kid hightailed it out of there when all the attention turned towards her and who could blame him? Retrospectively, she realized, she could have handled this better.

The leader of the band of misfits, or well the lead bully who had held the boy by the scruff of his T-shirt and who let him go, turning his attention towards her, was apparently the leader for a reason – his subordinates listened and obeyed. She became privy to his leadership skills when she noticed the slightest, almost imperceptible, eyebrow movement he employed followed by an instantaneous pain in the back of her head. The blow, while severe, did not render immediate loss of consciousness. She was aware enough when Gang Leader Boy approached her, knelt down on one knee, to where her crumpled form lay and put a loaded gun to her head. He thumbed the safety off and absurdly became Dirty Harry.

"Do you feel lucky, punk!" were the last words she heard.


	2. Chapter 2

**Unforgettable**

 **A/N: So, continuing the trend and perhaps the mystery :-) Would love to hear from you guyz! Hope this piques your curiosity and peaks your enjoyment ;-)**

 **Disclaimer: Characters and back story all belong to Shonda Rhimes and her Grey's Anatomy.**

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Chapter 2

Technology: anxiety inducing to old-schoolers, convenience to new-agers and in certain situations an opportune crutch with which to escape uncomfortable conversations. Not that one would consider a pager the latest technological marvel, smart-phones and tablets had obviously supplanted the outdated mobile and beeper. The purpose of the pager was different though. It allowed for the receipt of quick, instant messages and was a speedy and efficient tool utilized by professionals, typically in the health-care industry. The upshot of its use was customarily to inform the recipient of the immediate requirement of their presence. In this situation, however, he considered it an appropriate interruptor to a discussion that was teetering on the edge of a volcanic eruption. Midway through the exchange was when he came to the realization that further rumination was required before an irreversible decision was taken. So at that moment in time he considered his beeping pager to be a miraculous invention.

Acceding to its demands he ignored the hanging question and pivoting away from her presence he followed the path back to where he had emerged mere minutes before. Her exasperated expression was a clear indicator that she was onto him. He hid a tiny grin at her adorableness, knowing that not only was it inappropriate considering the serious nature of the talk from which he'd absconded, but also if she were to spy his slight smile he knew that she would totally misinterpret it, and a fiery temper would be ignited. He chanced a quick glance back, for even as she infuriated him he nonetheless hankered for the sight of her. Never in his wildest imaginings (and he'd had some doozies, natural of course when you consider where she'd been) did the thought even cross his mind that this hurried gaze would be his last sight of her…alive.

It had simply been a consult. No major disaster. No gaping wounds, burns or torn flesh required to be swiftly or meticulously patched. No earth shattering, natural phenomena causing, chaos. And no man-made catastrophes, either careless or freak, involved. Until there was. Being that Grey Sloan Memorial was a Level 1 Trauma Centre, all the doctors employed there were familiar with expecting the unexpected, and the blast of an exploding ambulance was severe enough for the presence of debris to even reach the ER doors. He was thankful that her shift had ended and that she'd left when she had. Not that fear for her safety was his overriding concern at that moment. To be fair, it was a constant back of the mind state of affairs, but as the saying went 'out of sight, out of mind' and his requirement at that moment was total concentration on the severly burned patient from the explosion just outside the doors of his own hospital.

It was unfortunate that even with the pooling of their respective skills they were unable to resuscitate the young woman who was burned beyond recognition. It was a bad outcome that did not sit well with any of them. Time, experience, a certain degree of arrogance and a learned emotional distancing mindset ensured that as surgeons they detached themselves from patients for their own peace and mental health, and for the most part they were able to adhere to this self-inflicted addendum to the Hippocratic Oath. Not today though. For whatever personal reasons her death affected them all. For him, the patient reminded him of her. Her height and slight frame mostly, as the charred flesh could give no indicator of any other recognizable characteristics. She was in fact a Jane Doe. Until she wasn't.

They would have him believe it was her. Her handbag found at the scene, no answer to numerous pagers but altogether much more damning the discovery of her mobile phone, screen scratched and damaged, within close proximity to the incident. All very Machiavellian, or if you were to return to the opposite side of the spectrum it could be considered a 9-eleven similar conspiracy, the part where 'clear' indentification is found amongst explosive debris. Yet one more explanation they used to justify their belief was the fact that no one had come forward to file a missing person report and subsequently claim Jane Doe. While he hated using the nomenclature, it was infinitely preferable to the name that was on all their colleagues lips. He convinced himself that if he refused to say it, it would remain a lie. Not only did he not accept it as true he vehemently denied it as truth. Aloud to all who would listen and a quiet admission to his own aching heart.

While avoidance of emotional unpleasantness had always been his default coping mechanism, conversely he was direct and openly confrontational in his thoughts and ensuing actions. He was guided by a strong moral code too, which often led to extreme honesty even during impulsive conversations and especially upon observance of others behaviour. He was basically a straight shooter and called them as he saw them. Except when it came to his inner being. In that aspect of his life he was inscrutable. Even she who knew him and who had chartered a course through his unchartered minefield of feelings was not privy to his process. She had obviously relied on educated guesswork and a shared past to navigate the pitfalls and although she'd fallen short, no one else had gotten quite as close. Knowing him as completely as she did, there were two facets of his character or rather traits that she had placed strong reliance on. One was his consuming love for her and the second was on par with that, his extreme stubbornness.

He'd been driven to atypical behaviour before. Spurred on by his protective urges and, on a couple of memorable occasions, jealousy (an incident of which could definitely be termed violent) he was brought to the realization that while the first was the norm the latter was only in relation to her, the love of his life. His nature of safeguarding and shielding women was in no way indicative of anti-feminism, patriarchy or even misogyny - he had the utmost respect for women and their abilities, including their rights to self-determination. Similarly, his behaviour and actions underscored his principled righteousness. He did not sexually discriminate against or objectify females and neither did he belittle, perpetrate or perpetuate violence against them. He respected the opposite sex but he knew that men were sometimes 'chauvinist pigs' and with their inherent physical strengths this could lead to the 'gentler sex' encountering danger to their persons from unchecked offenders.

Being a surgeon he, on occasion, had a ringside view to an intended or unintended kill and the resultant damage inflicted, which he then attempted to rectify. While this general malaise roused his protective instincts, with her it was amplified to the nth degree. So it was no surprise that he refused to accept the hand dealt to him. Discounting the basic premise of her being removed so viciously from his life, it became a matter of personal honour too, that he was unable to protect the most important person in his life...again!

Once disbelief over her disappearance was suspended, he conceded to experiencing the beginning of the five stages of grief, starting with denial and anger. He simply refused to believe or accept that she had died. His unique coping method encompassed a small measure of guilt too. Once again he'd given up on them, against her wishes and seemingly with such ease. The guilt he experienced, however, was not about his words but because his hesitation meant that he never got to explain his change of heart. His acceded reality, although too late, was that they were always worth fighting for.

While he was no Holmes or even sidekick Watson, his investigative prowess kicked in, aided and abetted by technology, which he once again appreciated. This time he was thankful for CCTV Camera footage, especially the motion detector ones outside that particular hospital exit. While the purpose of the Closed-Circuit Television was not video surveillance per sē, it was an insurance requirement to cover the expensive medical equipment on site and also marginally due to the medicinal drugs kept on the premises. The upgraded camera security was also in response to the hospital shooting of years past when medical personnel lost their lives. It had all been so unnecessary and certainly avoidable if the correct safeguarding protocols had existed.

He viewed the footage, ostensibly to negate their certainty and give weight to his denials. He watched as the camera panned to her as both it and him caught up with her, mid flight. He watched himself receive the page and he watched himself walk away. Out of the camera's purview he remembered his quick glance back towards her standing figure. In shock he watched as she was caught on camera, not making her way towards the parking lot as he'd assumed she had, but towards the hospitals emergency entrance around the corner and towards the ambulance bay. Mere seconds passed after she disappeared from viewing range when the visual effects of the explosion and resultant smoke and flames could be seen on the CCTV video. It was a chilling sight. Not enough for him to give up hope though.

Unwilling to concede defeat he ordered an immediate autopsy on Jane Doe. He tried to recall if any familiarity had sparked when he, along with the other surgeons, had attempted to rescue her. Except for her tiny stature nothing rang any bells. In this case neither did familiarity breed contempt, nor recognition. The explosion and fire was so severe that every part of her was indistinguishable. Nothing remained to identify her. No dimples, no familiar vibrant hair and no known scars or marks. It was also impossible to test her blood and as a last resort he tried to see if the female body had gestated and given birth in the not so distant past. Once again inconclusive evidence relating to unable to be tested data. He refused to accept though. He knew that she hadn't given up on winning him back, so where was the very recognizable rock on the ring finger of her left hand? Diamonds were a girl's best friend after all and also for a very good reason, they weathered any storm and emerged triumphant into and also as the limelight.

How did he go about looking for her though? All and sundry accepted her demise as true and his disbelief, while seeming to be the beginning stages of grief (or so they convinced themselves it was) also appeared to be the ravings of a, demented with grief, lunatic. He started doubting, his own sanity as well as his conviction that she was alive. Second and third chances at happiness were an anomaly. Perhaps, his luck had run out...


	3. Chapter 3

**Unforgettable**

 **A/N: "To be, or not to be, that is the question!"**

 **Exposé: The mysterious characters are revealed for who they are and for who they are not.**

 **Confused? So is a character ;-) Read on to find out more…**

 **Disclaimer: All the Queens horses and all the Queens men belong to The Red Queen herself: Shonda Rhimes.**

 **PS: The above purloined quote from Shakespeare's Hamlet seemed apropos.**

 **PPS: Yes, the alleged mismatched amalgamation of the gender reversed Humpty Dumpty Monarch and Alice in Wonderlands Queen of Hearts is a deliberate conflagratory choice.**

 **PPPS: Some clarity…**

 **Shonda = Ruler of all she surveys, all horses and all men = Queen of Shondaland**

 **Queen of Hearts, AKA Red Queen = "Off with their Heads!" = Red = Emotional Blood Lust**

 **Shonda = Red Queen = Queen of Emotional Blood Lust**

 **:-) :-) :-)**

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Chapter 3

This must be what being born felt like.

Hatched from a warm cocoon of darkness and thrust into the pain of light. An assault upon all the unknown, unfamiliar and unremembered senses. Pinprick vibrations, surrounded by a sea of whiteness. Perhaps this was what death felt like. Possibly even the destination hence, the afterlife.

Prevalent within the seeming absence of thought and movement was a barren oasis, the empty but cool, calm ambience of nothingness.

Sheesh, was she a poet or something? Hello from the other side, she thought. Uncomprehendingly she gazed at the figures hovering above her. A dark-skinned cherubic Angel and a black-garbed Man of the Cloth, both whose lips appeared to be moving soundlessly. Unable to sustain the effort required to decipher what appeared to be an excitable exchange she succumbed once more to oblivion. Her eyelids fluttered, her mind blanked and the haven of unconsciousness beckoned. She would think again tomorrow…

"Hello. Can you hear me?"

"Bri..ght," she croaked in response to the beam from the flashlight being shone into her eyes, flinching away from the presence. To be honest the luminosity wasn't that bad but compounded with the all-encompassing headache she was already experiencing, the light was piercing. And while the voice was soothing, she mused, bedside manner needed some work. I mean how rude was it to awaken someone with blinding light and a third degree. Self-protecting her cornea's she allowed her eyelids to assume the position, that of becoming supine.

"Do you know where you are? Can you tell me your name?" the calming, dulcet tones of the voice continued.

Why was God asking for her credentials, she wondered? Or did Saint Nick need to check his list to see if she'd been naughty or nice before her onward journey could resume? No, she interrupted herself; her befuddled mind had undoubtedly confused Keeper at the Pearly Gates with Keeper of the North Pole. As long as contralto voice was not Keeper of the Underworld she was good to go.

Realizing that she was interjecting humor into her inner monologue with a tiny bit of self-effacement or, depending on your point of view, self-deprecation, she, of her own volition this time, forced her eyelids open to confront the collision of her reality with her perceptions. Although she'd been unable to hear him before, and so unable to identify him by voice, his physical appearance was impressively recognizable; his obvious muscular stature beneath his collared garb had been quite evident. What stumped her now though was that she anticipated a booming baritone to reconcile with the image of the Pastor or Priest she'd glimpsed upon her first awakening. If it didn't hurt so much she would be giggling at her unintended pun. So her view was surprisingly anticlimactic. Her expectation of a brawny male figure with an absurdly tinny yet contrarily melodious voice was supplanted by the reality of a slightly above average, white coated figure. Definitely female and unquestionably the voice interrogating her. At least voice and data correlated, she supposed.

"What…what's happening? Where…am…I?" Soft tone, slow delivery but with noticeable anxiousness, she felt the onset of panic.

"Calm down, breathe deeply and I'll answer all your questions," the doctor, as she so unmistakably was, responded. 'Dr. Cool and Calm' continued her ministrations (again with the Catholic sounding words! but really no pun intended) by draping an oxygen mask over her nose, easing her anxiety along with her breathing.

"I'm…waiting," she mumbled, knowing that her words were audible through the mask as she watched the doctor's eyebrows shoot-up. Let's see how _she_ liked being on the receiving end of twenty questions!

"You're here at the Odessa Brown Children's Clinic in downtown Seattle," the doctor started, holding up her hand to circumvent the barrage of questions she apparently anticipated. "Yes, I know you are not a child," she continued. "You were brought here in unusual circumstances by…Father Michael Jordan. Yeah, no relation." The confirmation statement was accompanied by a slight grin signifying that she'd pre-empted the probably oft-repeated inquiry, which this clearly was, indicated by the wordless but mirrored eyebrow action above the oxygen mask. "I see you remember him bringing you to us. He's a big fellow, isn't he? But definitely not THE REAL MJ, MVP and NBA star," the doctor seemingly clarified but instead just caused more confusion with her acronyms.

Although she was still relatively out of it, she was not fooled by the hesitation and the quick explanation of the Pastor/Priest's name. She totally disregarded the clear digression of the popular culture references, which she figured were specifically used as a distraction. What of the angelic faced little boy, she wondered, attempting to get rid of her mask to enable this query.

"Leave it," she was instructed, the doctor staying her hand. "I'll remove it in a moment, when you're calmer."

What?! She was absolutely calm! This Medical Professional was used to dealing with children so she obviously didn't know how to treat adults! The counter argument to that was that she was a quack! Recognizing the harshness of her unvoiced contemplations, she relented. So perhaps the Pediatric Doctor was right, she would give it a few more minutes.

This internal dialogue she had going on with herself was certainly tiring and she conceded that she made a terrible patient. Why, though? What was causing her to behave so abominably to this woman who seemed hell-bent on providing assistance? And, would this damn headache abate, enough for her to think? Her introspection was interrupted by the doctor's continued conversation, which included an introduction and, to her surprise, a heavy handed social and history lesson.

"I'm Dr. Gibson, Pediatrician and General Practitioner, and as I said earlier this is the Odessa Brown Children's Clinic. While our mandate is to deliver healthcare and education services to young people we do also cater to ethnically diverse families, reducing health disparities and providing culturally relevant care. We believe that children have the right to receive basic healthcare with dignity, regardless of their families' ability to pay. To that end our major contributor is The Lenny Wilkens Foundation. _Their_ directive is to fund organizations that deliver healthcare and education services to young people while honoring their dignity and sense of self-respect. So with the same end goal in mind these two institutions have come together to provide necessary health care, _free of charge,_ to those in need. There I've given you the whole donor spiel," the doctor sighed, sounding like a monotonous robot. Barely taking a breather the information part of the program transformed into the clinic's historical background. "Do you want me to go into why we're named Odessa Brown?" she asked, immediately changing it into a rhetorical question as she blasted away without waiting on a response. "A Chicago hospital refused to treat young Odessa Brown during the Great Depression and…" Dr. Gibson started this second half of her rhetoric, ignoring her wide-eyed audience of one, sounding and behaving more like a politician than a doctor. She did step on the brakes upon hearing her alleged patient's sound of distress and seeing her pantomimed hand gesture to cease and desist. TMI, but necessary in this rare case.

"What the…" she, Patient X, started. She was about to demand an explanation, garbled though her statement would have been, rebounding off plastic. She was startled yet again. Not by the interruption itself but by the observable switch in manner, and not to say that Dr. Gibson had been callous or unsympathetic before, but her new approach was way gentler, a comforting voice.

"The reason I'm telling you all this is to reassure you. Don't be afraid, we'll take care of you here. Whatever…or whoever… you're running from. Whoever's hurting you, we'll fix it. You have my word, you're safe here." Aware that the doctor had been soothing her by tactile as well as verbal means, she reached up with her free hand and simply removed the now redundant plastic covering half of her face. Whatever progress had been made by the oxygen was nullified by Gibson's words, as her breathlessness resumed. What in freaking hell did Dr. G mean?

"Are you ready to tell me your name now and who did this to you? I'm your doctor so anything you reveal to me is covered by patient confidentiality, okay? And you can trust my word; whoever is trying to hurt you won't be able to come near you!" The G-woman continued to grasp her hand tightly, her earnest expression attempting to convey her trustworthiness.

"Hu…hu..hurt…me," she stammered having difficulty grasping the concept but experiencing an overarching sensation that could only be fear.

"Is it an abusive lover? Or…maybe your pimp? Trust me, I'm not judging you! But Anton did find you…" Dr. G stopped, realizing she'd slipped up.

"Who…who is…Anton? Angel…boy?" she gasped out, still trying to catch her breath.

Releasing a huge sigh Dr. Gibson indirectly acceded to her faux pas. "Little devil, but he does have an angelic face…and a good heart. He brought MJ to where he found you, battered, bruised and…burned? " the latter description asked in a questioning tone.

"I…I…don't remember!" she gasped out.

"What don't you remember? How you sustained the injuries? Don't worry about that, it sometimes happens in the wake of a traumatic episode and you did receive quite the bump to your head! We'll monitor the head injury. You know the human brain is amazing really, its capacity for protecting its host is quite remarkable," Dr. G postulated.

"No, no, no…I don't remember… anything!" she responded, alarmed. A slow dawning comprehension of her situation appeared on her countenance, escalating to blinding panic and an overriding fear.

"Are you being truthful here, young lady? I did promise you that we'll take care of you and we won't involve the police if you don't want us to. You're in bad shape here and I hesitate to say this, but we can't rule out physical violation." The doctor's comeback was a stern lecture.

Ignoring Dr. Gibson's inappropriateness and the contradictory nature of her words with the apparent judgment of her tone, she, Patient X, concentrated on pulling at the threads binding her thoughts. Memory remained elusive and just out of her reach.

"I honestly don't know who I am," she whispered.

Acceding to her patient's horrified expression, Dr. Gibson prepared to concede that she may have been incorrect in her assessment. Grasping both hands of the patient's in her own, she non-verbally apologized and offered comfort as a reparation of sorts for her previous disbelief.

"I think we really should get the police involved in that case. Someone is bound to be looking for you, perhaps filing a Missing Person Report?"

"Unless I'm a prostitute with no ties and you'll be leading me straight to whoever did this to me," was the sarcastic rejoinder.

"Alright, we'll have to rethink our plan going forward," Dr. G responded, doubt once again rearing its ugly head, in well her own head.

Gazing out the window at the ceaseless Seattle rain, both patient and doctor were silently contemplative, until the elder spoke her thoughts out loud.

"What do we call you?" she pondered aloud. "Jane Doe?"

"No, I don't think so. If whoever hurt me decides to look…" She was unable to continue the horrendous scenarios her mind conjured up but the doctor got the mental picture she painted.

They sat in meditative silence once again when out of the blue Dr. Gibson commented on the weather.

"Always raining in Seattle but my mother always said 'April showers bring May Flowers' so there's a silver lining huh?"

She watched the frown form on her patient's face, undoubtedly wondering at the cause.

"That's it. That will be my name!"

"What? May Flowers? Mayflower, not the way I would've gone," the doc commented, a hint of sarcasm apparent.

"No. It's April."

* * *

"Darling, I know it's hard to accept, but you need to face reality. She's gone."

"No. I refuse to believe that. That her God would take her away from me again, this time forever! After all we've been through…"

"Sweetheart, that's life. Bad things happen to good people!"

"She was…no she IS my one, mom! I love her, she is the one…"

"Baby, come here. Tell me what you need to do. How do we prove or disprove who the…body is?"

"I don't know, mom. Tell me what to do!"

"Oh, my poor boy! My Jackson."


	4. Chapter 4

**Unforgettable**

 **A/N: Thank you to my dear friends for your continued attention to this admittedly altered style of approach to the Japril story. Your appreciation truly humbles me.**

 **I** _ **have**_ **noticed that interest and readership has waned iro Japril stories in general and mine in particular. After some reflection and introspection, I've chalked it down to them being a canon couple. I mean what's the need for fiction if our desire for their togetherness is satiated by watching the progression of their story line on Grey's Anatomy itself, right? Anyway, if this explanation borders on self-delusion then let me know whether you think I should continue this story or not? On the other hand, if curiosity does exist as to the furtherance and conclusion of** _ **this**_ **Japril Journey, then please let me know too.**

 **PS: A/N was penned pre episode 12.11, and pre-jinx. In light of canon events take this author's note with a hefty pinch of salt and read as extreme sarcasm. So, as you were…**

 **As always, disclaimer reiteration: All the characters belong to SR, ABC and GA.**

* * *

Chapter 4

Death and Taxes. The surety of their inevitability, they whispered. The former, his nemesis. Stoically accommodating to the condolences he was the beneficiary off, he slotted them into two distinct categories. Firstly, pseudo-grief. Predictably mirrored by face to face platitudes coupled with behind the back gossip of acquaintances. Second was real life, real time sorrow. A quiet unavoidable reflection of grief from friends. Both grated on him. Neither allowed him an escape.

Circumstances being what they were, he knew that he would get a pass for any grief induced, normally unacceptable societal behavior, even from his remaining parental authority, but that was conduct he would not indulge in. After all, good manners and etiquette had been ingrained into him since birth. Emotional excess and demonstrative denial in the face of scientific certainty were characteristics very unbecoming of an Avery and in that respect he conformed inexorably to the PR image. He _did_ allow himself the outlet of grief though, but only in the privacy of his aloneness.

He railed at her God. Was the Universe punishing him for his hubris, for his disbelief in a Supreme Power? The fear that he'd had for her safety on the frontlines had, ironically, been superimposed by actual danger. The diametrically opposed plateau of home-court advantage, by residing in the good ol US of A instead of hotspot Jordan, made not a modicum of difference or perhaps a slight variance at best. The accident that killed his wife was classified as "Freak" here but would have been "Death in the Service of her Country" over there. The military speak, which she'd picked up during her tours and which had been an aggravating reminder of her recent absences every time she used it, was even more of a sore point when you consider that she'd never been drafted into service in the first place.

It was a disingenuous state of affairs, deviously duplicitous! Just as he'd forgiven her for her abandonment of him, she went and pulled a 180! While their return to intimacy had heralded a relinquishing of his anger, her perception, based on his reactions, was that he viewed their night of love as signifying the beginning of the end in the form of a beautiful, final hoorah. He had not had the opportune moment to correct the misconception that she's been laboring under, which interpretation he could not fault as the deliberate vagueness of his expression had been unyielding. So, one degree of his anger was at himself. The bulk of it though was all April – she'd left him yet again! This time, forever…

In his saner moments, and without anger guiding his emotions, he conceded that this was illogical. Of course her leaving this time was involuntary and if there was one thing he knew about his wife it was that she was a fighter, she would never surrender. She had not given up on life, on love and even on them, no matter the extreme provocation. Watching her let go of their baby had been the most selfless act of pure love he'd ever encountered and he knew the toll it had taken on her. Yet she'd persevered and battled for her sanity and their marriage…she'd been fighting him, for them, till the end.

She'd also fought against hurtful misjudgments of her personality, uncomplainingly, all her life. Throughout it all and to his complete admiration she remained honest in her persona. She took to heart the first rule of fight club; her battles were not, and never had been, for public consumption. She was a one of a kind non-conformist, true to herself and of beautiful spirit and nature. Considering her profession, her looks and her brain, she was the antithesis of the arrogant, 'know-it-all' surgeon and the least superficial person he'd ever encountered. She was as deep and unchartered in her depths as the unfathomable ocean. What had amazed him once he delved into her personality was that as much as she felt for others, she was a closed book about her own feelings. While he had utmost respect for her general honesty, she'd been hard to read otherwise, so every "I love you" that she had spontaneously uttered to him he'd taken as a personal victory.

It had become a reflex, an instinctive trust. She felt secure in his love for her. Pondering on this for a moment, he realized that guilt and disappointment in himself added layers to his grief. Why had he hesitated in his own honest response? Was he punishing her for leaving and consequently for him losing the security of his love in the wake of Samuel's demise?

The much touted five stages of grief were in his case three and he shuffled between those in no apparent order. Acceptance was a stage he knew he would never attain and as for bargaining, who would he bargain with? His belief in a higher power was still glaringly absent. As he remembered telling her at one time, things just happened. He would give anything to have her in front of him just then, arguing their differing points of view but in the end respecting and conceding to each other's rights of belief or unbelief as it were.

He was stuck on denial. Not because he couldn't accept that this could happen to him…them. I mean come on, he was a freaking doctor who saw more than his fair share of unexpected death. Things just happened. Come to think of it even to those suffering from terminal illnesses, death was an uninvited, unexpected and in many cases unwanted guest. He vacillated between anger and depression but denial was his constant. Something was not right.

He was rambling, internally, but still. Much as April was wont to do, although she let it all out, her mouth sometimes out-distancing her brain. He grinned in amusement at the thought of her lecturing him as to the correct implementation of the five stages of grief. She would draw up a list. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression and finally acceptance and he would have to adhere to her checklist in the order specified, no deviations allowed. He would rebel though. It would be a rehash of numerous rehashes, the first being their elevator conversation. "You do you and I'll do me," he fondly recalled. But the crux of it had and always would be, "Me and You."

While there had still been doubt as to the corpse's identity, work had been his solace. That and trying to find out the mysterious identity. Once certainty was achieved by all but him, they inevitably chipped away at his opposing conviction, and his work ethic took a nosedive. His investigation had not garnered enough irrefutable proof to stand up to the other doctors' foregone conclusions that Jane Doe equaled April Kepner.

He put all the investigative resources at his disposal towards analyzing the events of that day. He eschewed surgeries that he would have given anything to be in on, let alone lead surgeon. Why he'd even been contacted by The Odessa Brown Children's Clinic, on a cleft lift repair and some burn injuries. Since choosing his specialty he'd always promised himself that he would give back to the community, especially to those in need and pro-bono. These surgeries and the satisfaction he achieved at helping others was, aside from April, one of life's value added benefits, contentment of the soul.

Still stuck in the rut of denial he was yanked out of the darkness and into the light of a different kind of hope. This by a very unlikely source, Dr. Nathan Riggs. Just as before, Nathan brought him the case, for a follow-up visit. Only this time made it all the harder when he couldn't answer _the_ question.

"Where is Dr. Keps? I need to see her, to show her how I can catch the ball now!" he exclaimed, with a broad grin adorning his young face and for that moment Jackson wanted to pummel Riggs into the ground. Until he realized that it was a deliberate omission. _He_ had to be the one to tell Kamal that April was dead. _He_ had to accept it. _He_ had to grieve. Breaking Kamal's heart along with his own, he finally gave in to the inevitability.

From Nathan, Jackson learned of yet one more thing that April had kept from him. She had planned to adopt Kamal. His entrance into the country had been predicated on that proviso and the wheels had already been set into motion. April had planned to share the news of impending fatherhood with Jackson, but his anger and their resultant separation had held her back – she'd been waiting for the opportune moment. With or without him though, Kamal was going to be her child. How could he turn his back on that?

* * *

"Morning, April. How are you doing today? Any aches or pains? Have you remembered anything new?"

"No, Dr. G, nothing new memory wise. But I am remembering a lot of medical jargon – what do you think that means?"

"Perhaps, you watched a lot of medical drama's on television! Now I hear that the good father was able to put you up in a halfway house after the shelter, right, and not too far from the Church itself? And I hear that you've caught yourself a little tail in the bargain, hey?"

"My guardian Angel, he's still looking out for me! I'm glad you brought him up. Why haven't you done anything for him?"

"Like what my dear? His mother never brought him in, and I doubt she even knew which of her John's was the father, except that he was probably a white guy who left Anton with the legacy of those light eyes. Only once she OD'd did Father MJ bring him here for a full check-up."

"But why haven't you done anything about his cleft lip?"

"That's cosmetic surgery, April, and we don't have the funds or a Plastic Surgeon on staff. But enough about Anton, I did try to get a doctor from Grey Sloan Memorial to come down here to do some pro-bono work, but those rich guys they're really selfish. Enough about Anton. Now tell me about you. You do know what's been happening to you right? That's why you're here?"

"Yes, I do know and by the way I'm going to get Anton the help he needs."

"April…do you want to terminate?"


	5. Chapter 5

**Unforgettable**

 **A/N: Thank you to all readers following this Japril fic and special acknowledgement to Guest Reviewers who have requested a continuation of this story. It's unfortunate that I am unable to convey my gratitude individually, so please accept the sentiment and dedication of this chapter. To each and every one of you my heartfelt appreciation, THANK YOU! So, let's dive right in, shall we…after the proviso below, of course ;-) Also, profuse apologies for the long wait. I will endeavor to improve on posting dates for subsequent chapters.**

 **Disclaimer: Grey's Anatomy characters belong to their creator, Shonda Rhimes.**

* * *

Chapter 5

She was not one to ask for a handout. How she knew that about herself was unclear, but it was a feeling, a work-ethic, that she felt deep in her bones. She sensed that she'd always worked hard for life's necessities and that nothing had come easily or been handed to her on a silver platter. The impression and non-physical proof of menial labor supposed that, while she had not exactly been pauper material, neither did she come from wealth.

The lack of concerned relatives looking for her, or even non-relatives for that matter, reinforced the perception that not one single person was particularly troubled by her unknown whereabouts, or moreover, questioned whether she still persisted on this plane of reality. Whoa! Existential much, she ruminated? Sigmund would have a field day with her jumbled self-contemplation. Ironically, the physical manifestation of this chaos was a mental coupling of thoughts and unanswered questions, superimposed by glaringly nonexistent memories.

Is this what one would call a Freudian slip, she ventured? Maybe she _was_ a Psychologist; Seattle's very own Sigmund Freud. Analysis required, no gender bias permitted!

On the other hand, maybe she was a Philosopher? This latter argument cemented an extremely valid hypothesis. Who was to say that she wasn't a modern-day Nietzsche or Kierkegaard, or going back further, a contemporary equivalent Socrates or Plato? Why just yesterday her metro transit yielded a pertinent life lesson, which exhibited as an amalgamation of two Grand Masters, one Philosopher and one elder Graffiti Artist Extraordinaire.

This evolution became her new mantra and read as follows: _The secret of change is to focus all of your energy, not on fighting the old, but on building the new –_ _Socrates_ , inked by _Zephyr Tease_. Wait…how did her psyche blend Meditative Buddhism with Ancient Greek Philosophy? Apparently illicit subway art was its own wisdom and she took to heart another of its astute observations, a three-parter as it were: _Don't allow your past to define your present. Acknowledge your past, don't be your past_. Not that she knew her past. This insight did, nonetheless, render a measure of peace at her forced clean slate.

She wondered how the heck some of the world's major religions as well as pompous-ass Philosophers drifted as topics through her mind, while prodding recollections of people she might have known and happenings she may have experienced appeared to never reach fruition, but mysteriously teetered on the fringes of her awareness? Aside from being a woman, continuously balancing all aspects of life and leaving very little room for philosophical contemplation, and with tongue firmly in cheek, she surmised that she could pass for a Dalai Lama follower or a Hare Krishna Philosopher. With emphasis on her present circumstances though, just call her Confucius…

Maybe she was a Stand-up Comedian?

In addition to the absence of familiar loved ones in her life, she experienced another shortage. The glaring deficiency of familial remembrances obfuscated what would otherwise have been a clear cut case of the successful reanimation of a missing person. While the nonappearance of kinfolk and memory were bitter pills to swallow, she resolved to not become a martyr to circumstance; she _would_ soldier on. Maybe she was a Combatant in the United States Army?

The fact that she did not have a criminal record was a double-edged sword. Advantageous in that _she didn't have a criminal record,_ but inopportune information wise. On her mental Pro and Con List however, the conspicuous dearth of self-knowledge weighed heavily against perhaps having run afoul of the Law. In a very maverick-like manner, the absence of a police record actually denoted an argument _against_ enlightenment instead of for it. So, no rap sheet for her.

Was she a goody-two shoes, she wondered? Maybe she was a Law Enforcement Official – Police, PoPo, Fuzz, Pig or Cop in lay-person terminology?

She was not in the system and therefore unidentifiable. Fortunately, whatever burns she'd experienced had not obscured or removed her fingerprints but tragically this made not an iota of difference in detecting her on any government archives. She'd not yet attempted driving a vehicle (I mean get real, who would be allowing her the use of their car and anyway where did she have to drive to?!) but the mechanics were present to her subconscious mind and the workings of a manual transmission to boot. She felt that she could be quite at ease on the throne of a stick-shift Four-Wheel Drive Truck or Monster Tractor.

She knew all about gear levers and their concurrent use with the clutch. Maybe she was a Formula One Racecar Driver? NASCAR Driver? Nah, she answered negatively to the latter. Stock Car Auto Racing looked way too red-neck to be her passion, almost on par with a Donald Trump Rally.

With Donald on the brain, this brought up another interesting supposition. Maybe she was a Hairstylist? All she felt like doing upon seeing that bigoted, racist, sexist, misogynist of a Presidential Candidate on a passing television screen or newspaper was to reach out and yank the screeching toupée off his head! If that was physically possible, of course. Since a Bald Eagle had attempted the same, she considered that perhaps her career was in the Veterinary field, specializing in the training and care of The American Bald Eagle?

Although Trump's photo op with the National Bird of the US was simply a bullshit PR tactic engineered to curry favor with unthinking, racist, patriotic to white establishment citizens, she considered it kinda apropos that this mascot had 'Bald' as a name descriptor. An apt comparison only in that regard. Donald Trump was the antithesis of strength, courage and wisdom. These were qualities the Eagle represented and any association to the Trumpster would only besmirch the reputation of this proud animal. Fortunately, the eagle itself had lodged its own protest at the attempted appropriation of its reputation and symbolism. Bald Eagle – 1, Bald Trump – 0. Perhaps her lost career was the art of Advertising or Public Relations?

Contemplating the earlier hair-pulling desire she had, maybe she was a Wrestler? A WWE Contender? Maybe even WWE SmackDown?! Replacement Undertaker had a nice ring to it. Maybe she was an Undertaker? Or one of those make-up artists that saw dead people – Morticians Assistant? Realizing that she was drifting into the realm of spoof occult fictional movies with hilarious outcomes, her mind meld continued in the same vein, with similar sarcasm.

Maybe _seeing dead people_ was her profession or _Sixth Sense_? Or maybe, like Bruce Willis's character, she was dead and didn't know it? Either way, what was needed was a Ghost Duster…maybe she was a _Ghost Buster_?

It was apparent that she'd never obtained a license in this state. If she had, her prints would have flagged her identity, stemming from the DMV and linking to all Government subdirectories, including Homeland and IRS. No driver's license or state ID card meant that her true age too was a mystery. There was an advantage to not knowing though; she could embody the adage 'be as young as you feel.' Was it a disingenuous postulation that at this particular moment in time she felt like an old woman?

While Dr. Gibson may be able to estimate her age or more likely hazard a guess from her physicality, the good doctor's methods lacked accuracy. Well, she wasn't a tree that could be cut horizontally, revealing the number of rings indicating its age! That was clearly a super bad unit of age measurement. Firstly, she would be dead and well a second argument after 'dead' was not needed. But…she seemed to be very opinionated on every subject, hence additional reasoning was mandatory. So, in furtherance to her point, simple logic (and eyesight!) demonstrated that human physiology differed substantially to plant biology. Hence, an equivalent metric measurement system for humans that didn't entail them being chopped up, was required.

Maybe she was a Botanist? An Environmentalist? A Magicians Assistant, sawn in half every night for entertainment? But then, where was her Illusionist? Maybe _she_ was the Conjurer? With no memory of herself, she did not anticipate any recollections of parlor tricks, illusions or sleight of hand to make an immediate appearance. Whatever her profession she knew one thing, she was extremely well read regarding non-essential, nonsensical information.

She matched no description of any reported disappearance. Added to that, the uncommon name she currently went by, April, which had triggered a wisp of familiarity in her brain but which she couldn't confidently claim was her own, wasn't to be found on any missing person database. Law enforcement was no help whatsoever and neither did they display any interest in assisting her. They were too busy dealing with their own internal prejudices and the resultant revelation of corruption and cover-ups within their ranks. These abuses were clearly highlighted by public perception and the #BlackLivesMatter Movement.

The fact that she represented no crime committed by or against her meant that her situation did not merit precedence on their priority list. Neither, it seemed, did its simple presence have enough import to appear on any significant list. Those marginally interested desk-jockey cops were simply amazed that in these times of technological advancements and Big Brother or Uncle Sam constantly watching, that a lone individual could be so off the grid as to be a literal non-entity. Gender bias as well as personal disgust at the racist mentality and concurrent apathy of police notwithstanding, perhaps even the masculine domination of these nouns clearly displayed a watcher versus doer mentality in the male/female dynamic, right?

Somehow, she was the glitch in The Matrix.

Once again she was confounded by the ease and acquaintanceship she possessed regarding varied popular culture references. Maybe she was a Movie Critic? A Social Blogger? An Actor? Something she _was_ sure of; she was a Feminist! Hence, in her thinking too, she refused to genderize (was that even a word?!) professions. She was a social being though. At no point since she'd regained consciousness, her mental rebirth as it were, did she "vant to be alone." No Greta Garbo here, thank you very much!

Being a smallish built female would not have restricted her from attempting anything she set her mind to. So here was something new she learnt about herself; she possessed a "Never Say Die" mentality, an iron will paired with a physical well of strength. An April thunderstorm maybe, but definitely not a May flower. She was no shrinking violet!

From her varied injuries, her expectant condition and the contention of Dr. G, who surmised that she'd been either a victim of crime or poor lifestyle choices, April was pleasantly surprised at the willingness to render assistance that she encountered, particularly amongst the disenfranchised. These were people rich in everything but money. Discounting these helpful strangers was one she couldn't pigeonhole; she was on the fence about Dr. Gibson herself. While the doctor had been there, of course, her assistance had accompanied a supersized ego and major condescending manner. It was passive aggressiveness with an underlying judgmental attitude.

Despite what Dr. G initially claimed, that possibly her occupation was 'The Oldest Profession' or a sister branch of the sex industry, like stripping or erotic pole dancing, she felt that the behavior inherent in these trades was not part of her makeup. She couldn't conceive of the idea of removing her clothing, with a view to titillation, in private, let alone public, or of having random hookups with strangers. Not to mention bedazzling her vajayjay! Now why did her brain insist on these absurdities? She had no difficulty in the clinical terminology or even saying it out loud. Vagina. Penis. No problemo. She also wondered now if Prostitutes adorned their vaginas? Perhaps with a Brazilian? The depilatory, not the person! Despite the knowledge of the lingo, she was mostly sure that she was not an Aesthetician or Beautician. Nonetheless, the validity of either presumption, hypercriticism or detached theory, here she was, pregnant and alone. Absent baby daddy, aloneness.

Moral ambiguity aside she discovered that what fashion sense she possessed ran more to the conservative. Luckily, window shopping didn't require Tubmans (the, to be, new issue twenty-dollar bill replacing the old, defunct Jacksons) or even Franklins. Any value currency really. She could, however, cross-off Clothing or Fashion Designer from her mental career repertoire. The interest just didn't exist. Ruminating on the possibilities she felt like a square peg trying to fit into a round hole. This was obviously not her niche.

While lifting herself by her bootstraps with hard work and no handouts, she did Blance Du Bois it when and where absolutely necessary, by relying on the kindness of strangers. She was obviously a connoisseur of old-time classic movies. How else would her thoughts emulate that of character dialogue from 'A Streetcar Named Desire' right? Unlike the analogy of the purely decorative Southern Belle though, the support she required was minimal and only towards the furtherance of her own livelihood. After all she was all about an honest living, 'bout that living, no trouble. Perhaps she was a Singer? Substitute bass and treble and Lip Sync Battle was a go!

Standing on the precipice, metaphorically staring into the abyss of nothingness that was her memory, meant that the knowledge of her Social Security Number had also disappeared into this living black void of no recollection. Now while the SSN was not a de facto identification tool, as the social security card contains no biometric identifiers or primary identification norms like photograph, physical description or birth date, it had become an identity requirement and treated as an authenticator for legitimate financial activities. Which meant that for her to find a job, this was a necessity.

She wanted to be legally compliant without having to go into detail about her present circumstances. Many prospective employers would regard the short story of her life as suspicious and who could blame them really? Her actuality actually felt like a never-ending loop in a daytime television drama. Essentially, the entire plot of a soap opera.

So it came to pass that Max, of the mononymously named, entertainment-industry baptized variety, kinda like Cher or Madonna, became the stranger whose kindness she depended on. He ran Max's Diner (hence the default to this name reversion and association) and offered her a waitressing gig, payment under the table. She was perhaps an anal compulsive, law-abiding citizen for she abhorred these circumstances of having to earn a living without being compliant with the laws of her country. And yet, what alternative did she have? To transact financially the requirement was a SSN and to apply for a SSN required time which equaled finances lost. The bureaucratic red tape that she would need to rip off regarding her unknown identity alone would require copious amounts of hours. She needed the very thing she did not have to acquire the very thing she needed. A catch-22. Nevertheless, she promised herself that as soon as circumstances and finances allowed, the situation would be rectified.

Max's Diner was conveniently located, allowed her to earn an honest living and was in close proximity to Dr. G and the OBC Clinic. The propinquity to the Odessa Brown Children's Clinic was not for herself but for her 'adopted' son, Andre, or Dre as the angelic faced, previously named Anton preferred to be called. Who adopted whom? She was not sure. And the name change? Well, the explanations for that were better left for later, when she got into it with the doctors that were going to repair his cleft palette and lip. Hopefully, the fact that she seized custodianship as his guardian (in everyday life and name, but unfortunately not yet from a social and legal, child protective standpoint) would not cause his eligibility for pro-bono surgery to be rescinded.

She was stepping up for him and he'd become her protector. Being two lone wolves with no-one to call their own, they'd clung to each other. He'd become her life line and she the maternal bosom that he'd never had. Also, he'd captured her heart. She was his mother in every way…well except for her body not having borne him and oh yeah, the legal aspect. She'd come to love him as if he were her own and she vowed to nurture and protect him till her dying breath. A pledge that she undertook to fulfill with no obfuscation. So, returning memory, or not.

"Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth. Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with imaginings," he lectured. "Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness. Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should," Max continued, impressing her with his wisdom. Astounded by the verbosity from someone who embodied the opposite of gregariousness, both in speech and stature (but not girth! – to be fair, before today he'd reminded her of a quiet Santa Claus), the eloquence and perception he exhibited in this moment made him seem both. He was a reverse Mad Max, in that he never got angry. The moniker, however, became his. Kinda like a big dude was 'Tiny', so extremely chill Max was 'Mad Max' or double M 'MM' and sometimes even 'MMx'.

This closed door meeting was actually a request by him for her to take over, temporarily, as the cook. The diner's regular chef had succumbed to an unfortunate gastronomic mishap. What that meant in lay-person terminology, she did not have the faintest clue and before she could ask, M2 (sounded good, she would have to pass this one by the board for approval!) segued into his motivating speech. She'd discovered that she possessed _some_ culinary knowledge, but not of the MasterChef variety. So the motivation was welcome.

She agreed to the opportunity because of its temporary nature. Besides, she owed Max and she'd clarified with him the necessity for a once-off secondary temporary replacement for her after the morning shift today. She needed to be at the clinic with Dre when the Plastic Surgeon arrived for his re-scheduled consult with Dr. G. She just knew this day was going to be life altering.

Having reached consensus on all points, including a welcome bump in salary, she stood up from the visitor's chair in front of the desk Max was seated behind intending to take her leave of him, when a picture frame close to the door caught her eye. No picture, yet familiar somehow. Words leapt out at her. Not literally of course, as her life was not an animated cartoon. Nevertheless, it did cause her to stop and take a moment to read the artfully printed scroll in its entirety. Despite the seriousness and thought-provoking life lessons it encompassed, she had to laugh. It was a poem; Desiderata by Max Ehrmann. Recognized, because a few verses therefrom were just moments before quoted to her…by another Max.

She glanced back at him over her shoulder, with some serious side eye action, only to convulse with amusement once more at his response. His gleeful smile accompanied by a wink and shoulder shrug showed her yet another side to him. He'd morphed into this jovial and playful grandfatherly figure with a twinkle in his eye and jolly laughter that emanated from his belly. If she didn't know better she would think she was in the presence of her mischievous Fairy Godmother! She was an equal opportunity believer, pleased that the combined Pixar-Disney merger were doing away with gender stereotypes. Since Mickey Mouse and Nemo were now corporate cousins, she did not believe that other taboos couldn't be broken and so gender neutrality was not outside of the purview of fairy godparenting.

Maybe she was an Animator or Cartoonist? The eye-rolling this time was for herself. The best that she could come up with were anemic stick figure drawings. Maybe she was a Writer? If that was the case, then her memoirs would make for a very short read.

Stepping out of the Interceptor, aka MMx's office, she still sported a grin at his delightful antics. The guy truly had hidden depths. Who knew that beneath that quiet exterior lurked such understated humor? He seemed to be one of those types who only let his true nature out once he'd had time to assess the genuineness of a person and so obtaining a comfort zone which allowed the reveal of his own realness.

What amazed her about MM was that he never deferred kindness and helpfulness. He considered all destitute folk, including those whose pride would not allow them to ask, as being worthy of whatever assistance he could provide. Not a hand out mind you, but aid where required. He hoped to inculcate a 'Pay it Forward' culture. And people were catching on. This was evidenced by the never empty 'Reserved Wall' the diner sported – the catchphrase or buzzword for it being 'Suspended Coffee'. What it entailed: patrons paying for an additional (or more) coffee, soup or even meal. How the system worked at Max's was that tickets representing these paid for meals or warm beverages were placed on the reserved wall and any homeless or needy individual could simply redeem the receipt from off the wall. If ever a situation arose of no available tickets, humble Mad Max replenished the wall immediately, and at his own cost.

Considering people of character like Max and the Plastic Surgeon she had yet to meet, as opposed to the Trumps and Clintons of the world, gave her a measure of hope. About herself, her tiny but growing family and also her country as a whole. That is if its citizens woke enough to #FeeltheBern instead of supporting hateful racism or rich white elitism.

En route to the kitchen, just as she passed the diner entrance the door opened to admit some customers. She automatically glanced up, spying an adorable father/son duo obviously there for breakfast. She smiled at the young boy while wondering at the reason behind his stupefied expression. He had actually stopped dead in his tracks and stood there with mouth agape. If this was Hogwarts she would guess that he'd been petrified.

A quick glance at the dad didn't reveal much as he had turned to shut the door, so he was facing away from her while also speaking on his phone. His side profile was arresting and the quick glimpse she got was of tallness and authority. With clinical detachment, she noted, that his ass was _fine_. Being that she was on a tight schedule, she had no time to dismantle the little guy's shocked look or to wait and see if fine-ass dad looked as good from the front. Time was of the essence and she needed to complete this quick breakfast shift in the kitchen before hot footing it to the Clinic.

She had no idea that playing in the big leagues could be so enjoyable. Heavy duty kitchen equipment and Chef's knives were a breeze for her. To the extent that she sliced and diced like a pro. Maybe she was a Chef? Like the Amnesiac Chef the Geena Davis character thought she was in 'The Long Kiss Goodnight'? She had the speed and dexterity down and she knew exactly where the pointy end went! Maybe she was an Assassin…like the Geena Davis character actually was, in the same movie?

"Excuse me sir, you can't be back here! Is there anything I can help you with?" she asked the diner patron who had pushed his way through the kitchen's swing saloon doors.

"Oh, I'm sorry…I thought, that is my son was sure you were…never mind," she heard, in an utterly dejected tone of voice. The retreating footsteps stopped and another question was posed. "Is there anyone else in here?"

How did mistaken identity and an innocent enquiry develop into this flirting session she was privy to from behind the pantry door? Because it was Krystal with a K. The Kween of ONSs and a drawcard to any grown-ass Penis she came across. Although she didn't seem to be having much luck with engaging this one. Returning from the pantry with the items she'd sought she gaped at the newly refurbished Krystal standing there buffing her nails. Diner guy had obviously had a legitimate query and hadn't deliberately sought out the previously blonde, newly red-headed waitress. Shaking her head at Krystal she appropriated her nail buffer and sent her on her way with a complete order.

"So, hot dad and kid both want waffles," Krystal announced as she re-entered the kitchen with another order.

April efficiently multitasked. She listened with one ear to the Chatty Cathy for she had to admit the waffle-hungry pair had captured her attention and interest too, while simultaneously she worked up their order.

"You should see this dad, April, his eyes…" Krystal continued while she shimmied and feigned a shiver, for theatrical effect.

April didn't doubt that Krystal was smitten but she didn't believe for a second that his eyes were all that. Not that she doubted Krystal's veracity, but well, she was known to overdramatize and she fell into lust multiple times a day.

"Funny though, he's black or light-skinned black and the kid looks just like him! If the dad had to grow his hair out it would look exactly like his son's. But here's the kicker, the guy's accent is total American but the little boy sounds Middle Eastern. Weird huh? I wonder where's the mother? You should have seen him when I approached the table to take their order, the little kid I mean. I don't think he likes my hair. He looked so disappointed. You think I should go back to blonde, huh April?"

While her mouth tendered to run on, at times outdistancing her brain, and while her lifestyle was that of a 70's era love child, Krystal was not mean-spirited at all. She was simply a Kurious Krystal and a smidge self-involved. With a non-committal hum in response to the hair equation, April handed the waffles over for delivery and hurried to finish her other orders before she left. Dre was already at the clinic, waiting.

She rushed to complete the breakfast shift before handing over to the temporary Sous Chef for the early lunch crowd. On the brink of leaving, in walked Krystal once more with yet more commentary on her newest crush.

"The kid loved what you did with his waffle, April. The pieces of fruit in the shape of a happy face and looks like hot dad was glad you made it a healthy substitute. The dad didn't look too pleased with his own waffle, though. He barely touched it."

"He didn't like it?" April replied, questioningly. Although the cook position was temporary and late as she already was for the doctor, she still felt somewhat responsible for the unsatisfactory dining experience the father had endured. A part of her felt unappreciated and a little hurt, she had put a lot into the waffles, and the other part needed to make restitution. "Let me make it up to him. I'll whip up a quick omelette, with the works," she decided. This was do-able.

"No need, they've left. Guy left a substantial tip _and_ he replenished the wall. Maybe he just wasn't hungry. Probably missing the wife," Krystal concluded, justifying to herself the blatant disregard of her attractiveness to him.

With nothing else holding her back April left for Dre's consult at the OBC Clinic, within walking distance of the diner, thank God. Wait…was she a believer? Based on that automatic response she assumed so but this loaded question required way more introspection and time. So she shelved it for the moment. Intent on her own path, physical and mental, she was surprised to come upon Dre. He was walking towards her and away from where he needed to be…the clinic!

"What's happening? Why aren't you with the doctors? Did you leave because I wasn't there? See, I'm here. Let's go!" April questioned and instructed in one long exhale.

"He didn't show up," Dre succinctly replied.

She started fuming at that statement, but held it all internally. Dre needed to see her calm, cool and collected. But Dr. G would be the recipient of her rage.

"Why didn't he show up Dr. Gibson? Was it an emergency? Do Plastic Surgeons have those? Why didn't he keep his word? Is Dre not a viable candidate? Does he want payment? I'll make a plan for that, all you have to do is tell me!" Running out of steam, this gave the good doctor time to answer her.

"Calm down, April! Getting worked up is not good for the baby, right?" Dr. G soothed. "This turned out to be quite a roller-coaster day for our Plastic Surgeon. Dr. Avery's personal business at the King County Courthouse had him running late. He called to say he would be by and then about an hour later he called back to cancel. I told Anton…"

"Andre…or Dre," April interrupted the doctor, fascinated at the height Dr. Gibson's eyebrows were able to lift to, almost disappearing into her hairline.

"Yes, well Ant…Andre just left and who shows up but Dr. Avery. They probably passed each other in the hall. Dr. Avery was nearby and he dropped in to personally apologize. He took Anton's…sorry Andre's scans and he promised to reschedule. He had his little boy with him, so while he didn't mention it, I think his personal business was his son. We can cut him some slack, right April? In fact, I think you just missed him too. You stepped in just after he left," Daniela Gibson concluded.

Realizing that she'd misdiagnosed the situation, read too much into what she considered was the Plastic Surgeon's non-appearance, caused an immediate calmness to come upon her. She had overreacted and yes, perhaps she had been overly sensitive. But Anton…damn, she meant Andre (Dr. G's supercilious attitude certainly was catching!) was her child too and she would flat out kick the ass of anyone that messed with her babies.

Due to proximity and how they'd just missed crossing paths with each other, she'd figured out that Dr. Avery was the customer from the diner. It seemed that the sliding doors analogy (similar to the movie of the same name) was their experience today, one on either side of the glass doors, missing each other. She was, however, resolute that a physical meeting would happen and a melding of thought and action regarding her Dre. Soon.


End file.
